Lieumon Week: Creation
by spockandawe
Summary: Lieumon Week, Day 6: Creation. Amon hardly knows who he is anymore, but he cannot afford to show any weaknesses. He can find some relief in his Lieutenant's arms.


Lieumon Week, Day 6: Creation

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Sometimes, I hardly know who I am. There are too many versions of what I claim to be, what others think I am. When I began, I knew I was just a boy from the North Pole who destroyed his own face for the sake of a dream. Now I'm a mysterious man with an unknown past, and every day there are new stories of who I am and what I've done. I'm a general, I'm a myth, I've been blessed by the spirits, I _am_ a spirit in human form. It's not so bad when there are tasks that need doing; actions are so much easier than thoughts. The eyes on me cannot see my indecision and worries, only what I accomplish.

If not for my Lieutenant, I think I might have broken apart by now. I hardly know how he knew to open his arms to me, but that first time I fell into them I was once again just a man. That night I lay quietly there, and he held me without asking anything else of me. No words passed between us, but the next night he was there again and I did not hesitate for a single second before I went to him. I believe nobody else realized the fragility lurking inside the leader of the revolution, but he stepped in to support me before I even knew I needed him.

Things remained that way between us for a long time. The mask remained as a flimsy, meaningless barrier between us, but when we were able to shut the door and close out the eyes of the world, we were truly equals. Nothing changed in public, but in private he moved with a new kind of caution and I could feel his eyes constantly upon me. I couldn't put words to what I wanted, but I knew there had to be something more. That powerful tension must have been what drove him one night to undo the cord holding my mask in place, and it must have been what made me stretch up to gently kiss him.

His hand moved to cup my face, and his thumb brushed over the twisted scars covering my cheek. That kiss was returned with a heat that made me long for more. We moved forward together, neither of us able to articulate what we wanted, but both striving for that same unity of body and spirit. We ended the night tangled together, me tucked carefully into the curve of his body as he embraced me from behind.

Those nights have become by far the happiest moments of my life. I am completely devoted to the revolution, even as I am crushed beneath the weight of a thousand expectations and demands. However much I believe in the cause, however much I am willing to give to it, I am still only a man. That satisfies nobody. I am more than human, I should be able to give of myself time and time again, and still be able to give more. I stand tall as I walk to our quarters at night, but as the door swings shut it is all I can do not to buckle and collapse.

He is the only reason I can push onward. I feel no sense of myself, I cannot make sense of my own mind except when I am with him. I feel almost as if my body would break apart and dissolve into mist, because surely it works and moves without conscious direction from me. I am drained, weary beyond words. If I went to sleep now, would I ever wake? When his arms open to me, I go gladly into that safe haven.

The touch of his arms around me, his hands against me, that gives me some sense of who I am. I feel, so I must think, I must be. I am a man, with a man's life. The overwhelming exhaustion releases some of its grip on me as I melt into him. He undoes my mask and his lips press to mine, and I feel as though I can put my thoughts to words once more. I sink into the pleasure, the sensation, pulling him closer. This is a moment when the only thing expected of me is what we both desire.

He is quick to unfasten my clothing as we kiss. I wish I was faster to do the same with him, and my fingers fumble with the many buttons of his shirt. He pulls back for a moment to look into my eyes and gives me one last lingering, tender kiss before he stands and steps away from the edge of the bed. I am confused as I watch him move to the closet. This isn't how the evenings normally go.

The bed is so soft and inviting that I could almost go to sleep right then, but even more that rest, I long to touch him, for him to touch me. I slip out of my shirt and pants as I wait, but he returns carrying my bedclothes. I protest, loudly. I don't want sleep, I want him. All I want is him.

He relents a little, and I pull him down to me, but I can still feel how careful his hands are as they move over my skin. Where his fingers go, I can feel myself. A solid body, one that will not float away. His touch makes me real. His kisses trail down my neck, over my chest. The heat of his breath ghosts over me, and I shiver.

I know that I am tired, painfully tired. All I can do is lie there as he moves over me. I'm hard and erect under his hands and lips, but I've done so little for him. I'm suddenly anxious. He does so much for me, and it would be shameful to neglect him like this. I sit upright and he follows, but it I'm operating through a cloud of exhaustion and my touch is clumsy.

I'm trying to apologize, but he's reassuring me and pulling me to sit in his lap and lean back against his chest. His hands drop to my cock, and it's so good, so very good. We've had hot demanding sex, the kind that's closer to fighting than making love, but today he's tender and soft. He knows just how to touch me, where to touch me, and it's only a few short minutes before I'm completely aroused.

Precum beads on the tip of my cock, and he slides his fingers through it and back down my length. I shiver at that sudden wetness, and I can feel him smile as his lips press against my shoulder. He moves faster, harder, gripping me tighter. He holds my balls even as he strokes up and down, and I buck up into his hand, gasping for air as the orgasm hits me. I come, my hands shaking as I weakly grip his legs, and lie there for a long moment as I recover.

I turn around to face him. I have to do something for him. I have to. He catches my hands in his before I touch him, though, and eases me down to lie on the pillow. He's moving the blankets, pulling them up over us, and I'm slow to understand. He lies down there with me, and tells me not to worry, just to sleep. I want to argue, but I'm even more tired than I realized. Whatever I want to do for him, I'm sinking into unconsciousness. I press myself closer to him, our legs twined and our hands locked together. As I surrender to the exhaustion, the last thing I feel is his lips pressed gently to my forehead.


End file.
